


Midnight Rendezvous

by dodge62



Category: Sterek - Fandom, Teenwolf - Fandom
Genre: M/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:32:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodge62/pseuds/dodge62





	1. Chapter 1

Derek sat down on the sofa and moved to put an arm around Stiles, but the boy pushed it away.

“Here we go,” muttered Derek. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“You can pout all you want, the answer is still no.”

Stiles threw him a petulant glance and swung his body around so he could sit cross-legged on the sofa while facing Derek.

“But you want to.”

“Of course I want to. That doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“And this is how you prove you love me… or something?”

“YES! Stiles we have been over this a dozen times. You are only 17 years old and we are not having sex, period! Not until you’re 18.”

“Erm… can we jerk off together?”

“You know the answer to that.” Derek started to say something else, but bit it off. He took a deep breath and turned to face his formidable boyfriend. 

“Look, you’ll be 18 in nine months. It’s not that far away.”

“Not that far… Derek, nine months is… is…”

“A lifetime…” Derek breathed out, staring at the ceiling.

“A lifetime… wait. What? Are you making fun of me?”

“Never. Not in a million years and we’re still not having sex.”

Stiles jumped off the sofa and yanked off his t-shirt. “You can say no to this?”

“No. N. O. And if you try and take off any more clothes I’m going to dump you out on the street in your underwear.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

* * *

“Why are you driving around in your underwear?” Scott had opened the door to Stiles jeep and was staring at a nearly naked Stiles.

“Just get in the car.” Stiles started the jeep and pulled out of Scott’s driveway.

“Derek and I had a fight.”

“And that’s suppose to explain… what is that suppose to explain?”

“He won’t sleep with me and I was trying to coax him…”

“Did it work?”

“Would I be here in nothing but my boxers if it had?”

“Good point. Where are we going, by the way?”

“I don’t know. Just driving around.”

“You’ve really fallen for him haven’t you?”

“Like a goddamn brick! And when he stands his ground like this, it just makes me love him more. I hate it, but I love him for it.”

“I suppose you could let off some steam with a guy your own age.”

“You volunteering?”

“No, of course not…” Scott started laughing.

“What?” Stiles asked, not able to keep the grin off his face.

“I was just thinking about what it would be like if I said yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Seriously, Stiles. Do you think either one of us would be able to stop laughing long enough to do anything?”

“Y-y-you don’t?”

Scott started writhing in his seat. “Oh, Stiles! Oh, Stiles, yes! Suck on it! Oh, baby! Yeah, use your tongue, use your tongue!” Scott was laughing so hard he was crying. He looked over at Stiles and saw that he was beet red. Then he saw why. “Oh, Jesus, Stiles!”

“It’s not my fault you start talking like that when I’m only wearing boxers!” Stiles said, trying to push his erection down between his legs. “You get laid, like, what? Every night? And what do I get?”

Scott held up his right hand, kissed it tenderly and then spoke softly to it. “Go ahead and laugh, Elliot. What do you know of love?” Scott started laughing again and kept laughing until Stiles punched him in the arm.

“OW!”

“Serves you right.”

Scott studied Stiles for a few minutes and then dug his phone out of his pocket. “Dr. Deaton? This is Scott…”

* * *

Stiles stood in front of Dr. Deaton, dejected and miserable. His feet were dirty, his boxers hung low on his hips and he was shivering in the chill air of the Deaton’s examination room.

“There’s a shower in the back, Stiles. Go get cleaned up. Then get into some scrubs and come back here.”

Stiles wandered off like a lost little boy. When he had gone, Deaton looked at Scott. “So what’s this all about?”

“He’s totally in love with Derek.”

“Why is that a surprise? Everyone knows that.”

“Derek won’t sleep with him.”

“And he shouldn’t. Stiles is only… ok, I’m beginning to see where you’re going with this. Scott, I take my powers very seriously. They’re not to be toyed with.”

“I know that. But if you had a chance to use them… to use them without there being some kind of monster breathing down our necks… wouldn’t that be a nice change of pace?”

Deaton rubbed his chin and for a long while didn’t say anything. “The spell you’re referring to is… well, I haven’t performed it in a while. I’m not sure how long I can keep it going. You know this requires a wand?”

“Well, wouldn’t that will be up to them… OH! You mean like a… wand? I thought that was only in Harry Potter books.”

“Oh no. A wand is a very important tool in any wizard’s arsenal. I just haven’t had call to use one since we met. I think it’s up in my attic… Alright, you have Stiles and Derek here at midnight. I think Stiles deserves to have a little white magic come his way. But this is a never again, one time thing. Understand?”

Scott understood completely.

* * *

“Stiles, I swear to God if this is your idea of a joke…” Derek glanced around the dark clinic parking lot, not sure what to expect.

“All I know is what I told you, Derek. Scott said to be here at midnight. That he had a surprise for us.”

“I’m going to have a surprise for him one of these days… WHAM! SOCKO! To the moon!”

Stiles giggled. “Awwww! That’s from the ‘Honeymooners’. My boyfriend watches TV Land! I’m so wet.”

Derek growled at him.

“Ok, Sourwolf. Let’s go see if Uncle Scott can’t cheer you up…”


	2. Chapter 2

“Was this your idea?” Derek’s tone was flat, almost monotone, but Stiles knew he was pissed.

“Stiles didn’t have anything to do with this. It was totally my idea,” Scott said. “I though it would be nice to throw some white magic your way without anything scary trying to kill us.”

Derek nodded slowly. “And you want to do this?” he asked, looking directly at Stiles.

“With you, yes. More than anything in the world.”

Derek looked over at Dr. Deaton who, as usual, remained above the fray. His offer was simple. He would provide Derek and Stiles with an alternate reality seven years in the future. Stiles would be 24; Derek would be 30. What they did during their time together would be entirely up to them and totally private.

“How long will we have?” Derek asked quietly, taking Stiles’ hand.

“Three hours, maybe four, but no more than that. To be honest, there is some risk. I haven’t performed this spell in a very long time.”

“What’s the worse that can happen?” Stiles asked, as serious as Derek had ever seen him.

“The AR might spit you out, back here, but the landing could be very rough.”

“Well?” Derek was smiling at Stiles. 

“I’m ready if you are.”

Derek nodded at Deaton who reached under the examination table and drew out a wonderfully carved wooden box, splashed with faded, ancient colors. Stiles eyes grew wide as he watched the doctor open the box and take out a wand that was radiant with a strange internal glow, the likes of which Stiles had never imagined.

With a simple flick of his wrist, the wand’s glow grew more intense and it suddenly spit out an opening in the middle of the room, not unlike a hologram, into Derek’s loft, the same, yet different… 7 years older, comfortably worn and lived in.

“See you in three hours,” was all Deaton said.

“I hope you guys wore clean underwear, “ Scott quipped. 

Derek looked at Stiles and without a word they strolled hand and hand through the portal.

On the other side, it was as though everything was entirely normal, like any other early evening the two of them had ever spent. Stiles turned and looked at Derek. The seven year jump had aged him only slightly. He reached up and gently caressed Derek’s face.

“Am I too old?” Derek asked.

“Never,” Stiles replied. “What about me?’

“I can’t believe it! You’re even more handsome than you were five minutes ago.”

“How?”

“There’s a mirror in the…”

“No. I want you to tell me.”

Derek let his eyes wander over Stiles, noting the subtle changes he’d undergone. “You face is thinner, more angular.” He unbuttoned Stiles shirt and pulled it off his shoulders. “All your baby fat is gone. You’re so lean… so beautiful.”

Derek leaned in and kissed him, pulling the shirt all the way off and tossing it on the sofa. Without another word he drew Stiles over to the bed and began to undo his pants. His hands were shaking.

“You wanted this even more than I did,” Stiles said, unable to hide his surprise. He took hold of Derek’s hands to help stop the shaking.

“Did you think it was easy to keep telling you ‘no’?” Derek’s voice was husky, his words punctuated with gentle kisses around Stiles’ neck and face. He drew Stiles’ pants down and reached inside his underwear.

Stiles gasped. To be able to touch and be touched, to feel Derek’s care and love running over him was more sublime than he could have imagined. While they kissed he reached out and took hold of Derek’s shirt and gently drew it up over him and dropped it on the floor.

Derek was still toned and lean, but his overall mass had reduced slightly, a sign of age and life, and normal wear and tear. Stiles kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks without losing his lip lock on Derek. With one quick shove his pants and underwear dropped to the ground and he stepped out of them with grace and alacrity.

He took Derek’s hands and placed them on his cock. Derek pulled away and looked down at Stiles, seeing him naked for the first time. “You’re so beautiful,” he said again, softly, running his fingers through Stiles’ thick mop of hair. He laughed softly as his hand continued down across Stiles’ cheek and throat.

“What?” Stile wondered.

“You have stubble! A beard!”

This prompted Stiles to look down. The area between his pecs was covered in soft, downy fur and the same was true of his abs.

“I’m going to be bear?” he asked, slightly dismayed.

“Well, a cub, anyway,” Derek smiled at him.

“Is this going to matter? I can go shave…”

Derek kissed him hard and continued fingering his cock. “It doesn’t matter at all. I love you. That’s all that matters.”

He laid Stiles down on the bed and while he watched him gently pleasure himself he stripped out of his clothes and dropped to his knees, running his tongue up and down Stiles’ cock.

And that’s about the time the shaking started…

* * *

“What’s the matter, Doc?” Scott yelled over the melee.

“I’m not sure! It’s like the wand has a mind of its own. Help me hold it!”

Scott grabbed Deaton’s hands and together they tried to hold the wand steady as it vomited out sparks and shafts of multi-colored lights like a fire hose.

“Are they going to be alright?” Scott yelled over the torrential sound of spells out of control.

“I don’t know!”

* * *

Inside the AR, Derek and Stiles were tossed around like they were in the middle of an earthquake.

“What’s happening?” Stiles yelled.

“I don’t know. Stay on the bed!”

Derek threw himself over Stiles and together they rode out the sickening waves. Slowly, they began to ebb away and after a while stopped altogether. 

“Are you alright?” Derek asked, looking down at Stiles, but the boy looked back at him in horror.

“What’s the matter?” Derek asked, smiling hesitantly, thankful the tremors had stopped.

“Your face…” Stiles gently eased Derek up and glanced at his upper body. “Dude, you’re like 80 years old!”

Derek staggered back off the bed like he’d been burned. He looked down at his sagging pecs and the gnarled gray hairs covering his chest and groin. He ran his hands up to his face. The skin was loose and he could feel the bumps and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He looked back at Stiles, fear running riot over him.

“What’s happened?”

Stiles was trying to process what was in front of him. He hardly recognized Derek and without thinking he reached over and pulled the bed sheet over his middle, embarrassed that this old man was seeing him naked. If Derek was on the edge before, this moved shattered him. His lover was rejecting him out of hand.

* * *

“What in the hell was that?” Scott asked, the room calm now, the quiet deafening.

“I have no idea, “ Deaton said quietly, studying the wand.

“We have to get them back!” Scott was growing frantic.

“Not so fast. We haven’t any idea what’s happened to them. If we bring them back now, whatever changes they’ve gone through could be permanent.

* * *

Derek was sitting cross-legged on the floor, though the position hurt his knees and hips. He had his face buried in his hands and his gray, dank hair fell down across his forehead.

Stiles was crouching next to him, gently caressing his wan shoulders and upper arms. 

“I’m here, Derek. Come over to the bed. Come on…”

He eased Derek up and gently led him over to the bed, the sheet falling away from him. Over the shock of Derek’s worn and aged appearance, he didn’t care whether Derek looked at him or not. It was still Derek.

“What if it’s permanent?” Derek asked forlornly. “What if I can’t change back?”

It’s not permanent,” Stiles told him firmly, not at all sure that it wasn’t. 

“You’ll leave me!” Derek cried.

“I won’t leave you,” Stiles reassured him, not at all sure that he wouldn’t.

The rumbling started again.


	3. Chapter 3

This time, it was Stiles who covered the weak and fragile Derek. The tremors were much more sever this time and large chunks of concrete fell crashing from the ceiling, raising huge clouds of dust and other debris, turning the loft into a war zone.

Stiles felt his body start to shift and change, into what he wasn’t sure. After what had happened to Derek, the thought of his losing control began to unsettle him, in time, terrifying him.

He looked down at Derek and found him completely changed, not back to normal, but now 15 or 16 years old. At the same time he could see that his own hands were younger, the hair on his forearms retracting under the skin leaving them smooth and sleek. He descended into a fog and in a complete panic jumped off of Derek and disappeared into the clouds of dust and rubble.

Finally, the shaking stopped and Derek shook the dust out of his eyes. He sat up, immediately checking to see if was still elderly and infirm. His was overjoyed to find his body restored to youth and strength, but then he noticed the differences that had frightened Stiles so much. His body hair was greatly diminished and his skin held a youthful glow that he hadn’t seen in years. Regardless, he felt whole again and he was preoccupied with a more serious concern: Stiles was nowhere to be seen.

“Stiles! Where are you, buddy?”

Derek got up from the bed, brushing the fine talc from his face and hair. He found his boxer shorts and pulled them on and then pulled on a pair of trainers.

“Stiles!”

“Yeah.”

“Where'd you go?”

A 15-year-old Stiles poked his head out from behind a fallen chunk of cornice. Derek recognized him immediately.

“I’m, ah… not sure what I look like…” Stiles said, looking around. His voice was quaking and he was obviously very frightened. Derek wouldn’t take his eyes off him. “You’re not what I expected,” was all he could get out.

Stiles edged out from behind the jagged cornice and looked down at himself. He was lean and toned, like a swimmer, much more defined than he had ever been in real life. He looked up at Derek, a broad grin breaking out across his face.

“This is fantastic!” he yelled. “What were you saying about this being permanent? How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. 15, 16, I guess. And me?”

Stiles looked at him for the first time. “About the same, but…”

“But?”

“Derek, you look incredible. I… I can’t believe what I’m seeing. What do you think? Swim team? Gymnastics?”

"I don't know..."

"What difference does it make! Look at us! We're amazing!"

“Maybe you should put some clothes on.” Derek turned and wandered back toward the bed.

“Clothes! Are you out of your mind?” Stiles was following Derek, laughing at their good fortune. “I don’t know what Deaton did, but, baby, let’s take advantage of it!” He came up behind Derek and put his arms around him, but Derek eased him away.

“What up with you?”

“You were going to leave me.”

“I… what?”

“Just now. I needed you more than ever and you were going to leave me. Now, I’m young and fit again and all you can think of is sex.”

Stiles threw himself down on the bed and looked up at Derek. “You could fuck up a wet dream, you know that?”

Derek bent down and picked up Stiles boxers from the floor and tossed them across his cock and balls. He looked around, found his clothes and started getting dressed.

“What are you doing??” Stiles was incredulous.

“Ending this. Now’s as good a time as any, don’t you think?” He walked into the bathroom while tugging on his shirt.

Stiles pulled up his boxers and looked around. “You’re not a very good housekeeper are you?” he yelled after him.

* * *

Dr. Deaton laid the wand down on the examination table and took a few steps back. He studied the wand intently and then, without looking at him, spoke to Scott.

“What, exactly, did Stiles say when he spoke to us this afternoon? Do you remember?”

“You mean about doing this tonight?”

Deaton only nodded.

“He said he wanted to show Derek that he would love him through thick and thin.”

“Was that it? Exactly? Or did he say that he wanted to PROVE to Derek that he would loved him?”

“You’re right. He did say ‘prove’. And then he said that it was important to him that Derek understood that more than anything and that he wanted the same back. You think that has something to do with this?”

“Very possibly, although I’ve never known it to happen during a spell like this. Stiles’ unconscious intentions, and even Derek’s, might be what’s driving this. And if that’s the case, they could be caught in a very dangerous situation.”

“So what do we do?”

“Try to end the spell and get them out.”

* * *

Stiles stumbled around the room, enjoying the exploration and mess of it all. He kept testing his lithe, new body, spinning, jumping, doing backflips in the mess of Deaton’s spell. And with each trick, his laughter became more manic, his face redder, his breathing more erratic. 

Derek came out of the bathroom, only slightly ruined, somewhat combed and brushed. He reached out for Stiles. “If we just sit and wait, we’ll be ok. I don’t know about the changes we’ve gone through…”

“NO!” Stiles shrieked, slapping away Derek hand.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” 

Stiles took off across the room. He turned and looked at Derek, breathing hard. He wagged a finger back and forth and then took off again like some manic nightmare from ‘Lord of the Flies’.

“Stiles!”

Derek didn’t know how far the AU extended and was in dread of a hyperactive active, teenage Stiles suddenly dropping into Dr. Deaton’s office… or oblivion… whichever was the case.

“Stiles! Come back here!”

Derek raced across the room, dodging smashed rubble and concrete. Stiles would wait until Derek was almost to him, then speed away, laughing maniacally. 

“Stiles, goddamnit!”

Stiles disappeared behind the bed, but his laughing gave him away. Derek jumped onto the bed and reached down for him, but Stiles darted away like a jackrabbit.

“Stiles! Relax will ya!”

Derek jumped back up on the bed and looked around. Stiles had gone to ground and this time he wasn’t laughing. Derek took a deep breath, relaxed his body and listened with his wolf sense. He heard a slight grunt and a rapid exhale of breath. Worried that Stiles had hurt himself, he zeroed in on the spot and bounded across the room, landing on a teetering slab. He looked down and what he saw filled him with dread.

“Stiles, don’t…”

Stiles gathered up a large handful of shit from the dump he’d just taken and hurled it at Derek. The stinking projectiles barely missed him, but he took some of the outliers in the chest and stomach.

“You hyperactive prick!”

Stiles thought this was hysterical. He quickly gathered up another handful and scampered away, laughing so hard he was having trouble breathing and his face was even redder than before.

‘Hyperactive’ was the word Derek seized on. If Stiles body was an exaggeration of him at 15, maybe his ADD was also exaggerated. He somersaulted off the slab and made his way back to the bed, dodging the shit bombs that Stiles was lobbing at him from across the room, jumping up and down whenever one made its mark, like a filthy, demented Peter Pan.

Derek took cover behind the bed and dug around until he found Stiles’ backpack. He dumped the contents onto the floor and looked around until he found a prescription bottle of Vayarin. He read the dosage instructions, opened the bottle and shook out two capsules. He was just getting up off the floor when Stiles landed on him, covering them both in shit, dust and sweat.

Derek grabbed him up and, carrying the boy under his arm like a squirmy piece of rolled up carpet, went to the kitchen, filled a glass with water and broke both capsules into the glass. 

“What are you doing?” Stiles screamed at him, then paused to breathe and laugh. “Only my mom knows how to do that!”

Derek resettled his grip and then grabbed Stiles by the nose, he started pouring the water into him. Stiles took the hint and after a moment wiggled free of Derek’s hold, took the glass in both hands and drank it down. As soon as he was finished, he made to throw the glass at Derek, but Derek was ready for him. He caught the glass, gathered up the now waning Stiles.

“I only did that because you made me,” Stiles said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Mom’s gonna be pissed!”

Derek carried him back to the bed, sure that the sudden mention of Stiles’ mother was a symptom of his disorientation at his ADD. He laid the boy down and wrapped himself around him, stroking his hair, waiting for the next round of tremors… or the very unappealing prospect of explaining to Sheriff Stilinski that Stiles was 15 years old again and no one was quite sure why.

“My mom’s not never coming back, is she?” Stiles said quietly, glancing up at Derek with a look that made his heart break.

“I don’t think so. But I’ll always be here.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and went back to staring at the ceiling. “You’re not my mom,” was all he said.

Derek smiled at him. “I know that. But I’m here and I love you.”

“But will you always love me?” Stiles asked him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I will…”


	4. Chapter 4

“How long have they been in there?” Scott asked quietly. “You had said the spell couldn’t last…”

“If I was controlling it, it couldn’t have lasted more than 3 or 4 hours. But I’m not controlling it. If I’m correct and the spell has somehow been co-opted by Stiles unconscious then there’s no way of telling how long it will go… unless…”

“What?” Scott asked, leaning in closer to Deaton.

“Maybe if they fall asleep.”

“The subconscious sleeps?”

“No, of course not, but it does carry out a lot of processing when we sleep.”

“So, you’re thinking… what are you thinking?”

“It might be enough to weaken their hold on the spell and I could end it.”

“Wouldn’t we still have the problem of dealing with any changes that have taken place?” Scott asked.

Deaton only looked at him. 

“Does this surprise you?” Scott asked studying Deaton.

“In what way?”

“That their collective subconscious is so strong?”

Deaton slowly turned the wand over in his hand. “There has always been the supposition that Stiles is much more than he seems.”

“There has?” Scott was slightly dumbfounded.

Deaton smiled gently at him. “There’s much more to life, to your life, than you ever imagined, isn’t there?”

Scott thought about this for a moment. “Well, sure. Derek I get. He’s always been powerful. But Stiles? He’s…” Scott shrugged his shoulders. “He’s just Stiles.”

“I think you underestimate him,” Deaton said. “It’s quite possible that Stiles will wind up being more powerful than any of us. The danger is in the fact that none of us realized it. Least of all Stiles.”

* * *

There had been three more tremors since they’d retreated to the bed and through them Stiles and Derek had returned to their normal ages. Now they lay in the wreckage of Derek’s loft and waited.

“Do you suppose,” asked Stiles, “that we’ll spend the rest of eternity bouncing around in here?”

“I want you to know how sorry I am,” Derek said pulling Stiles closer to him.

“For what?”

“For being so goddamn stubborn. If I had been more flexible…”

Stiles put his fingers up to Derek’s lips and he stopped what he was saying. Stiles then wrapped his hands around Derek and pulled him close to him, so that Derek was almost lying on top of him.

“Let’s not go there. For now, we’re here together…” Stiles looked around the bed and at both of them. “…in relatively good shape. Let’s be thankful for what time we’ve got…”

This time it was Derek who stopped what Stiles was saying by kissing him deeply, almost desperately, and Stiles responded in kind. While he concentrated on Derek and what Derek might want from him physically, a small sliver of his mind wondered if all of what had transpired over the last few hours were what were required to have reached this point. Is this what Deaton had intended all along? Or did the spell have a mind of its own?

The experience was well beyond anything Stiles had expected. Being a virgin he had no idea what he wanted, but he trusted Derek enough to forget his apprehension and follow his lead. With great tenderness, Derek led him through their love-making, allowing Stiles to experiment and satisfy his curiosity. Not that Derek was the old pro. He had never made love with a man before and so he let himself explore Stiles’ body with the same joy and curiosity that Stiles was experiencing.

What moved Stiles nearly to tears was the lack of self-consciousness their trust engendered. Stiles was always aware of his awkwardness and his time in the team locker room had brought home to him, brutally at times, that he was not much of a physical specimen. But in bed, with Derek, it didn’t matter. He knew that he was loved and that his physical imperfections mattered not at all to Derek. And for himself, all that mattered was that he realized now that he was capable of love and that he loved Derek.

The tremors began again, but not gradually this time. Rather, they exploded at full intensity, throwing Stiles off the bed as the floor around them began to crumble and fall away. Derek threw himself across the bed and caught Stiles’ wrist just as the floor under him disappeared, leaving him dangling over a swirling, rubble-filled abyss.

The bed began to buck and shake beyond anything they had experienced before and it took all of Derek’s strength to hang onto the mattress and to Stiles. At one point, Derek was thrown nearly clear of the bed and he saw developing below them a raging, billowing cloud of flames.

“STILES! You have to get back up on the bed! Help me!” Derek shouted.

Derek was pulling on him for all he was worth, but he could only use one hand, the other keeping him anchored to the mattress. Stiles was doing everything he could to pull himself back up, but the bucking and shaking kept him from gaining a purchase on the bed, Derek or anything. Finally, exhausted, he looked up at Derek, also close to exhaustion, and made his decision.

“Let me go, Derek.”

“WHAT! NO!”

Derek made another mad effort to pull Stiles onto the bed, but even he could see that it was hopeless.

“Derek…”

“NO!”

“Derek, look at me.”

Derek did as he was asked. The entire loft was gone now, the bed somehow balanced on a single pinnacle of reality, still spinning and convulsing.

“I love you, buddy. Now let me go.”

Derek closed his eyes and looked away. He could feel his grip on Stiles slipping. He looked back down at the boy dangling over the raging fire pit.

“I’m sorry,” was all he said.

Stiles closed his eyes and Derek let go of the mattress.


	5. Chapter 5

It was pitch black, raining, the air fetid, thick and full of bugs. Stiles squashed down his panic and took a look around hoping to get some bearing on why he wasn’t dead. The last thing he remembered was Derek letting go of the bed… Goddamnit, Derek! Why’d you let go? For me?

Mud was seeping through his fatigues at the knee. The wet brought him back to focus. Was he in any danger? Where was Derek? He was huddled in a small, muddy clearing, surrounded by dense jungle. His eyes traveled up the barrel of the rifle he was holding, his finger wrapped around the greasy, wet trigger guard. The weapon shifted slightly in his grip, slippery from the rain, and the barrel tapped gently against his helmet.

His left hand shot up to his throat and stumbled around until he felt the two, etched, stainless-steel discs hanging from the light-weight chain around his neck. He looked at the information printed on them. His name, service number and a date… 1943… his blood type, or what he assumed to be his blood type, his father’s name and address in Beacon Hills, his next of kin, and under it all, the letter “M” for Marines.

His uniform, more like a set of rags, hung on him like it was three sizes too big. Sleeves rolled up past the elbow, shirt unbuttoned almost to his waist, his chest slender, wet and grimy. Muddy fatigue pants clinging to bony hips, loose at the ankle, some leather on his feet, green with mold and soaked through.

He looked around the clearing, three other men were crouched in the mud, but none were built like Derek. A hand landed on his shoulder and he almost shat himself. He jerked around and was looking into the rummy eyes of a young sergeant.

“What the fuck…” Stiles whispered fiercely.

“Sorry, I thought you heard me come up,” said the sergeant. “Listen, Derek’s ok, he’s over at battalion aid. Why don’t you knock off and go see him?”

The words were all in the right order, but it took a second for Stiles to comprehend them.

“Sure.” He started to get up, but then crouched back down, grabbing the sergeant’s shoulder. “You’re sure he’s ok?”

“Right as rain,” the young man grinned, watching the water drip from the rim of his helmet. “Not even enough to get him sent home.”

Stiles nodded.

“You got any cigarettes?” the young man asked.

Stiles noticed the pack stuck in a band around the man’s helmet. He started to reach for them, but the sergeant caught his hand.

“Erm… ones that are dry?”

“Should you even be smoking out here?” Stiles asked, feeling around in his shirt pockets. He came up with a mostly empty pack and a box of matches. He pressed them into the man’s hand.

“We haven’t seen even one Imperial Marine in over 12 hours,” the sergeant said. “Recon says they’ve all pulled out. And besides, why should you care?” He pulled out a smoke and started to hand back the pack, but Stiles stopped him, taking the man’s hand in his. “Keep ‘em,” he said. “And why wouldn’t I care?”

“Ok, I was out of line,” the young man said smiling, striking a match to his limp smoke. “I didn’t mean that.” Stiles noticed that under the muck and grease the man was strikingly handsome.

“It… It’s ok,” Stiles said slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

“I keep thinking that if there had just been a little more time, things might have worked out different between us. But once you met Derek, well, I knew I didn’t stand a chance. Still, I tried. Behaved like an ass. You don’t hold it against me, do you?”

“No. No, not at all,” Stiles mumbled, not at all sure he was hearing him correctly.

“That Derek’s a lucky fella. Ok, now, off you go.”

Stiles took a moment to stare at the man and noticed a tear forming at the edge of one of his dingy blue eyes. He realized that in another life he might have fallen for the rangy soldier even harder than he had for Derek. It also occurred to him that he could drag the sergeant deeper into the jungle and have extraordinary, desperate sex with him. Instead, Stiles reached up and gently wiped the tear away.

"It was decent of you to come out here and tell me about Derek. I won’t forget it."

He looked at the man again, then nodded to him and slipped away.

The aid station wasn’t hard to find, it was right behind the clearing and Stiles stumbled in not knowing what to expect. The place was hot, stinking and quiet, punctuated by groans and whimpers coming out of the darkness. An exhausted orderly wandered by carrying a tray of bandages. Stiles grabbed the man’s arm.

“Derek Hale?”

The orderly shrugged off his hold and motioned with his head toward the back of the tent.

Stiles stumbled around, but then saw him, lying on a cot in a corner, so dirty and bloody he barely recognized him. The wound was to his right shoulder. A bandage had been wrapped around his chest and then crossed from left to right to hold a thick gauze pad in place, now brown and stained with dried blood and pus. Stiles was barely able to look at him. He took another step towards him and the smell hit him, a mix of body order, piss and shit.

Stiles spun around and ran out of the tent, out into the rot and the rain, but it wasn’t as bad as the smell in the tent. He pulled off his helmet and, bracing himself on his rifle butt, vomited into the gray mud, the mess swirling around his feet. What in the fuck was happening to them? This was suppose to be a night of love making… 

He straightened up and wiped the rain off his face. It was cool, at least, cooler than the sopping air. He replaced his helmet. A night of love making. He reminded himself that love making wasn’t necessarily sex and that he had told Scott and Deaton that he was going to prove to Derek that he loved him. So far as he could tell, this whole experience was made up of scenarios wherein one of them was standing by the other in difficult, impossible, otherworldly circumstances. What was he suppose to learn from all of this?

Stiles slung his rifle back on his shoulder and went back to the aid station. On his way back to Derek he found a dressing table and grabbed up a large metal bowl, towels, some antiseptic and a couple rolls of bandages. It was late. Everyone was exhausted. No one cared.

He gently laid everything on Derek’s cot and propped his rifle and helmet against the netted side of the tent. He gingerly propped up a bottom panel and stuck the bowl outside to catch the rain.

“Derek? Derek, you in there?”

Derek’s eyes fluttered open and then riveted onto Stiles. “Oh, thank God!”

He grabbed Stiles arm and held it against his cheek, tears streaming down his face. “Where in the fuck are we? What’s happened to me?”

Stiles knelt down next to the cot and held Derek’s hands. “I need you to stay calm, buddy. As near as I can tell we’re somewhere in the Pacific during World War Two. You’ve been wounded.”

Derek started to sob, he held onto Stiles like his life depended on it. “Why aren’t I healing?”

“In this reality you’re not a werewolf, at least I don’t think you are. Listen, Derek, I’m going to get you cleaned up…”

“NO! Stiles… I think…” Derek reached down between his legs.

“I know, buddy. It’s ok. That’s why I’m going to clean you up. They won’t let me drag you’re sorry ass outside, so…”

Stiles looked around the tent and spotted a hospital screen leaning against one of the tent’s center poles.

“Be right back,” he said. He grabbed the screen and set it up at the foot of Derek’s cot, then began to undress him, starting with his boots. The socks were so wet they were on the point of dissolving and came off with the boots exposing Derek’s wrinkled toes. Stiles had to hold his breath until he could turn away and dump the boots on the other side of the screen.

He removed Derek’s soiled pants and boxers so that he lay naked except for his bandage. Stiles marveled at how many times he had been desperate to see Derek naked, quietly checking to see if he had locked the door when he showered, surreptitiously glancing at him when he was changing, and now here he was. His wound reeked and he was near to being emaciated due to bad food and little of it, his skin was blotched and white, his cock and balls wrinkled and shrunken. Looking at him, Stiles realized that he loved him more now than he ever had.

He retrieved the bowl, the rainwater sloshing against the sides, and took up soap and a towel.

“Ok, here we go…” he said. He soaped up the towel and began to gently wash Derek, changing the water several times and throwing the dirty towels on the same pile as Derek’s ruined clothes. It wasn’t so much a bath as it was a ritual, Stiles taking great care with him, as though he were making love to him rather than flushing off the dirt and grime. He wondered if there was any activity in which he and Derek could engage that wasn’t overtly sexual. It took him almost an hour, but when he finished Derek was clean, smelling of carbolic soap and damp canvas.

He cut through the filthy bandage and exposed Derek’s wrecked shoulder, a bayonet wound, apparently, hastily stitched together and now purple and pink, and oozing bloody water. Stiles took up the bottle of antiseptic and tried reading the label in the dim light of the tent.

“What’s the matter?” Derek asked.

“I’m worried this is going to sting like hell…”

“And the alternative is?”

Stiles opened the bottle and poured some onto one of the towels and began to gently dab it around the rough stitches. Derek grabbed the bottle from him and poured it into the wound.

“DEREK!”

Derek gritted his teeth and bit back a scream. When the pain became bearable he looked up at Stiles, tears in his eyes.

“Just for the record?” he said in a raspy voice.

“Yeah?” asked Stiles.

“It stings like hell.”

Stiles grinned at him and then leaned over and kissed him, his mouth stale and dry and tinged with cigarette.

“Let me get you wrapped up.”

It took him a couple of tries, but he eventually got the hang of it and after a few minutes Derek was as good as new. He washed out Derek’s soiled boxers and hung them over the screen along with his pants and socks, then he went away for a few minutes returning with a clean towel, which he wrapped around Derek’s waist, and a pack of cigarettes lifted from the snoozing orderly.

He knelt down next to Derek’s cot, lit a smoke and drew it deeply into his lungs, then he gave it to Derek. He laid his head on Derek’s chest.

“How are we ever going to get out of here?” was all he said.

Derek just ran his fingers through Stiles matted hair, knowing he didn’t have a clue.

To Be Continued...


End file.
